


nothing but fake friends

by zealotarchaeologist



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Rivalry, Secret Identity, clementine kesh is the worst and i LOVE her, set sometime after 06 but no particular spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22581559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: Clementine and Gucci discuss the latest hostilities between the forces of Horizon and the Rapid Evening.
Relationships: Clementine Kesh/Gucci Garantine
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	nothing but fake friends

**Author's Note:**

> halfway through this i realized they don't really have tv in partizan but i do not care. i am obsessed with these two and their shitty secret identity rivalmance.

Clementine fucking hates when her mother makes her wait.

Crysanth Kesh is punctual to a fault. She’s never been late to anything. No one takes a second more of her time than she intends them to. Which means when she leaves Clementine stranded in the marble-floored waiting room outside her office (her second office, really, the one with the nice leather chairs) it is always completely on purpose. To teach her discipline, maybe, or just to watch her squirm.

She might bear it better under better circumstances. Not even 8 hours ago, the Rapid Evening returned from their latest engagement. Which had ended, yet again, with Horizon and their fucking Saint Dawn showing up and ruining all of Clementine’s carefully laid and very-well-executed plans. Her whole body feels raw and sore from the exertion of piloting the Panther. She’s been getting better. But better wasn’t good enough. Under careful layers of makeup, there’s a mottled bruise on her cheek where falling machinery caught her, as part of the Panther had near caved in.

Clem groans just thinking of it, sinks back into the soft white couch she’s chosen for her perch. She’s dressed for comfort and elegance, all thick white furs. It’s getting properly cold in Cruciat now, and there’s an ever-present scent of spices and chocolate from the kitchens. Bored, she flicks on a newscast on the Palace display, ostensibly installed to entertain the many visitors who Crysanth would force, for whatever reason, to wait.

It’s the wrong choice. The Palace shows a feed from the very fight that nearly killed her yesterday. Or at least she had felt close to death. Just her fucking luck.

The universe must hate her, she decides. There’s no other reason why, right at that moment, just as Saint Dawn’s horrible, shimmering mech is crashing into the Panther with a vengeance, Gucci Garantine should walk into the room.

Gucci is wearing red. She is always wearing red, lately. A fitting color for wartime, really, but Clementine takes a different view. She’s so drawn towards white these days precisely because it will show all the blood. That Clementine Kesh, they’ll say, she’s not afraid of a little blood. She’s not. So long as it makes her look elegant.

She hates red right now. Red is the cockpit of the Panther, sirens blaring, systems compromised, hull breached yet again by that fucking _thing_. That hideous work of art. White, well, white is for—

(--bright sun on snow. Saint Dawn. Radiant, pure. Cold light on the horizon--)

\--the comfort and opulence of the winter palace. The white marble floors and ceilings of the waiting room. Marshmallows, bobbing sedately in her very expensive cocoa. She hasn’t touched it. Every bit of her attention is focused on the newscast, focused on not seeming focused.

“Nasty business,” Gucci murmurs, as on the display the Panther is thrown into the side of a building. “The damages from this one have me rethinking my funding requests.”

“Terrorist squads have never been particularly considerate, have they.” Clem says, sympathetically. _Oh, fuck your budget._ She thinks. _I nearly died._

Gucci laughs. Not the close-mouthed chuckle she usually has in public, always at Clementine’s expense. This laugh, her real laugh, is always a single sound that rings sharply out of her like a bell. Clem has always found it to be beautiful. And cruel. “Oh, Clementine. You’re _so_ lucky you don’t have to deal with all this.”

“Indeed.” _It must be hard, being you._ Clem struggles to look neutral, the hard line of her mouth barely restraining her desire to snap. But Gucci cannot learn that anything is wrong. No matter what slights she has to endure.

They lapse into silence, then. Both of them, eyes glued to the screen. Clem takes a sip of her cocoa. The Panther struggles to its feet. She remembers how hard it had been, the pain, the effort. Then, as it tears into the crystalline innards of the Transgress Oblige, she remembers how good it had felt. The triumph warms her even now, and she has to fight to keep the smug satisfaction off her face.

Because Gucci is eyeing her with interest, now. The usual kind of personal interest, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less dangerous. Her companion is smart, too damn smart, and relentless besides. If she catches even a hint that Clem might know something, she’ll stop at nothing to dig it out. She knows this from experience. They’ve known each other a long time, long enough that she considers Gucci Garantine both a friend and an enemy. It’s only then that she notices Gucci’s earrings, little fractal diamonds that shimmer and catch the light at every angle in a horribly familiar way.

A crash vibrates through the sound system, draws their attention back to the broadcast. It’s showing the end of the fight now. When Saint fucking Dawn had taken her big stupid partizan and—

“Oh, dear.” Says Gucci, the slightest smile at the corner of her mouth. Why should she be smiling? Maybe she just likes the violence. “That looked like it hurt.”

It had hurt. Terribly so. Her body is still aching from it. She wants to tell Gucci to go fuck herself or maybe bring Clem some painkillers and a strong drink. She wouldn’t refuse. Lord it over her, sure, but never refuse her dear friend.

“That was quite a show.” She says, instead.

Gucci gives a little sound of agreement, then turns to stare Clementine dead in the face. It’s bold, sudden, and it makes her feel like she’s been slapped. “Weren’t you deployed near there? You only returned last night, surely you must have seen some of the fighting.”

 _Shit shit shit. Fuck._ “Yes. But, ugh, it was pointless.” Clem makes a vague gesture into the air, her mind racing. She thinks highly of herself as a liar, of course, how could she think otherwise, but this is Gucci. Gucci who has known her for ages, who has beaten her at croquet regardless of whether or not she was trying, who always seems to figure out something she shouldn’t. “Making empty promises to farmers. We were on the outskirts the whole time, missed all of the good stuff.”

“Hm.” Gucci’s eyes go narrow for a moment. It’s clear she doesn’t believe her, and Clem is already bracing herself for the next question. But then she blinks, and the tension is suddenly gone. She’s still staring at Clem, but it’s with amusement more than suspicion. “Well, I should hope your little squad never has to deal with these…mannerless rebels.”

Clem is about to respond when the attendant comes in, and indicates to Gucci that Crysanth Kesh is ready to see her. Not her own daughter. Even in this, she can’t come first.

Gucci stands, resplendent in red. Calm and confident, she strides towards the office doors. She pauses to lean over Clem in a familiar gesture, to lay a hand on her shoulder and say see you soon.

But she pauses a little too long. She stares Clem in the face the way they’ve done before, the way they’ve always flirted with the idea of it. With the same kind of unstoppable force as that spear sliding through the Panther like it was nothing, she leans in close and for a moment she thinks Gucci Garantine is going to kiss her. Clementine’s brain is white static.

Instead, Gucci’s thumb brushes over her bruised cheek. It hurts, badly, and she flinches before she can remember to control herself.

“Are you getting into trouble, Clementine?” Gucci’s voice is ever so quiet. She does not smile now, not even a hint. Clementine cannot gather herself to answer. Not even to shout, imperiously, that even a diplomat of Gucci’s standing will not be permitted to lay hands on her.

But the moment dissolves, abruptly. Gucci drops her hand and steps away. Without looking back at Clem, she walks, slow and confident, into Crysanth’s office. Leaving Clementine alone in the empty white room.

The broadcast is still going, talking about destruction, tallying up meaningless numbers that will turn into lines on some spreadsheet somewhere. Clementine Kesh does not hear it. She stares, unfocused, into the locked door, and brings a hand to her cheek.


End file.
